Sweet Dreams and Flying Machines
by 40socks
Summary: I've seen fire and I've seen rain, I've seen sunny days I thought would never end, I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend, but I always thought that I'd see you again." The obligatory "Jack Lives" story. Previously titled "Fire and Rain"
1. Jack

The blank sheet of paper seemed to be taunting him; daring him to move the pencil across it and create a drawing.

Rubbing the heel of his palm across his forehead, Jack let out a sigh as he looked back down at the paper that had been blank for the last twenty minutes. This used to be so easy. He used to be able to just sit down with a fresh sheet of paper and draw anything. Whatever was in front of him, whatever was in his memory, even whatever was in his imagination. But that had been nearly a decade ago. Nine and a half years since he had last picked up a utensil with the intention of drawing.

Jack knew as soon as he was back on dry land that his last drawing would be of her. Before he met her his drawing had been his livelihood. She was going to be his life. It almost seemed appropriate that she and the picture were together—at the bottom of the ocean.

But now Jack once again had a pencil in his hand and a pad of paper in his lap. He hadn't even considered drawing since the sinking. But recently, he had done a lot of things he hadn't done since those horrible days years ago.

A week earlier, Jack's job as a farmhand in North Carolina had ended. Winter was coming once again. After winter came spring. Jack hated spring. But he also loved spring. It was in spring that he had known her. That he had known love. And he would not regret that.

So, ready to move on, Jack slowly made his way to Raleigh. The first train out would take him to Maine. Jack had plenty of experience in harvesting. How different could collecting maple syrup be? He didn't like the idea that he would need to stop in New York City overnight. He had avoided the place just like he had avoided the ocean since he had left Carpathia. But the next morning's train to Maine was all Jack could afford with his somewhat depleted earnings from the farm job. Eight hours. That was all the time he was going to spend in New York. Maybe it would be good for him to face his demons.

When Jack stepped off the train into the large waiting room of Grand Central Station, he could feel the pain hit him. Even just a few hours was too long in this wretched city. He pulled his thin coat tighter around his shoulders and his hat over his eyes, but Jack could tell that they did nothing to shield him from the pain that being this close to his memories of the sinking inflicted. He wandered over to the nearest subway map, looking for the fastest way to Hoboken. That's where he would spend his night in the city. Among the tramps and scoundrels, but most importantly—away from the city, and even the entire state of New York.

He descended the dirty stairs onto the subway platform, trying and failing miserably to be unaware of his surroundings. But that's when Jack heard the scream. Near the base of the stairs in the uncrowded tunnel, there was a struggle going on. A tall man with dark hair and anger in his eyes had the obvious advantage. Both men looked to be better off than Jack, but neither belonged to the fabulously wealthy class that Jack had met aboard the—no, he couldn't think the name of the ship. Not in New York. Jack watched in horror as, ties and glasses askew, the men continued to fight. Just as he was about to step in, Jack could see the larger of the men lean over the other, who was lying on the cold concrete, and pull out a gun. He heard the shot as he was already running for the police.

Severely shaken, Jack ran through the doors of the New York Police Department. As it was after dark, there was a slightly reduced number of men in the office.

"I—I think someone was just killed in the subway terminal. The station at 42nd and 4th on the East Branch. There was a struggle. Then someone pulled out a gun," Jack practically yelled. Damn New York.

Jack waited in the waiting room, very nervous. It didn't take long for the detectives to confirm his story.

"What can you tell us about the man you saw, son?"

Jack now had two horrible memories of the only two times he had ever been in New York. He took a deep breath. "He was tall—really tall. Probably over six feet. He had dark hair and maybe a bit of a beard."

"How old was he?" asked one of the policemen.

"I didn't really notice. Probably a little older than me. But his eyes. That's what made him memorable. They were filled with such—hatred. Scared me shitless."

In fact, as Jack said the last words, he realized just whom the man in the subway had reminded him of—Cal. He hadn't thought of that name in years. But the only time he had been even more scared of a person than he had been of this man was when he and Rose—he sighed even thinking the name—had been running from Cal's gun in the depths of Titanic. Jack winced at the pain even the memories caused. It would take days to work his way back to contentment. In fact, that was all Jack could ever feel, content.

"Are you all right, Sir? I know witnessing a crime can be a harrowing experience."

Jack nodded. What the cop didn't know is that Jack had seen enough harrowing images to last him a lifetime. He tried unsuccessfully to stop the flow as they ran through his mind. The iceberg itself. The wild people scurrying for lifeboats. The crew that did not have the skill to properly load the lifeboats. Later the locked iron gates. The children that were trapped. The people who, seeing no other option, jumped off the ship in favor of the freezing water. All of the people in the water, their faces frosted over in their final expressions. Jack couldn't help but let out a shudder.

"It'll be fine. We'll put you up in the hotel across the way. You'll feel better in the morning and we can introduce you to our sketch artist. We are sincerely thankful for all your help Mr—"

"Dawson," Jack said curtly. He didn't belong in the nice hotel. He didn't want to stay there, even for free. Jack just wanted to move on to his next job. Forget about New York and all of his experiences there.

But Jack really didn't want to have to describe the man to a police sketch artist. It physically pained him to be around art. But he knew that it would be just as hard to watch someone draw a picture as it would be to draw it himself. It would probably be a better representation in first person anyways. Jack had already experienced enough pain today, so he did what he never thought he would do again. On the way to the hotel where he was staying on NYPD's dime, he stopped in a corner art store.

At first, Jack was excited to once again see the supplies for his favorite pastime. Some things had changed in the last ten years and the artist in Jack was itching to see the novelty. But as he picked up a portfolio that was markedly similar to the one that he had lost, the one that contained what he was sure would be his last drawing, Jack felt as the constant pain pulsed once again. He pulled a wrinkled bill out of his pocket and hurriedly paid for his large pad of paper and a limited amount of supplies. Without returning the clerk's tip of his hat, Jack shuffled out of the store.

That was how Jack found himself sitting against the headboard of a soft bed in a well-furnished hotel room with a blank sheet of paper in his lap. He could see through the window that the sky was beginning to grow lighter, signaling the coming dawn. He knew that if he made even a single mark on that page he would have to continue drawing. His final picture could not be of a common criminal.

Jack took a couple of shallow breaths, closed his eyes, and drew. He didn't stop drawing. not to check his work, not to make himself comfortable, not even to breathe. The result surprised him. He had never drawn an entire picture with his eyes closed before. But because he was trying with all his might to block out the images of the last picture he had drawn, he couldn't bear to see what he was drawing.

The man on the page before him was Cal Hockley. As soon as Jack saw the man looking back at him, he tore the page out of the portfolio violently, crumpled it, and threw it against the armoire. As much as the man in the subway startled him though, Jack was absolutely certain it was not Cal.

He looked at the second sheet of paper. He would have to try again to draw the killer. He was afraid to try another picture—afraid that another memory would inadvertently show up on the page. But he clenched his teeth and urged his hand to guide the pencil across the paper.

What he finally saw was not a bad representation of the man on the subway platform. Jack knew he couldn't sleep, so he simply waited for the police station to open. He would take the drawing in and he would be on his way to a new job.

The police building was busier that morning. Jack slowly walked to where he was scheduled to meet with the sketch artist and saw one of the two men he had spoken to the previous night. When he noticed that Jack was standing there, he opened his mouth to speak, but Jack spoke first.

"I—um—drew the killer myself. I thought it would be easier to draw him myself than to describe him to someone else," Jack muttered. He handed over the drawing, more than ready to leave.

"That's very interesting," said the cop in a voice that indicated it was more than interesting as he looked at the drawing. "Will you follow me sir?"

"What the hell is this?"

"Don't lose your ass, son. You're not in trouble."

Jack reluctantly followed the policeman to a quiet corner of the building. "The man in this picture was apprehended last night. It seems that after he killed your friend in the subway terminal he got scared. Turns out he was a personal acquaintance of our sketch artist. He didn't want to be recognized, you see. Our men caught him leaving the artist's residence. Unfortunately it was too late to save him. From the look of this drawing you seem like you would make a decent replacement. You got a job, son?"

Without thinking, Jack spoke. "Well, no, not at the moment."

"How about you join the force? If you stay long enough you could even earn a badge."

"No!" Jack practically shouted. "There's no way in hell. I'm getting on the next train north and I'm getting as far away from this city as possible."

The policeman chuckled back and waved him out. Jack had already descended the stairs when he turned around.

"Wait."

He needed to keep drawing. But if he didn't have real people to draw he would draw his memories. Nothing scared him more than his memories. Jack knew that he would have to become the NYPD sketch artist to give him something to draw other than _her. _

"I—um—" God, he had almost said that he changed his mind. How painful were those words? "I decided I want the job. I'd like to continue working on my art."

"Great. I'll set you up an interview with the city. I think you may need to pass a test or something. It'll take a few days I think, but you should be alright."

Jack sighed. He didn't really know why he'd agreed to it. He feared his memories, he loathed this city.

"Welcome, Mr. Dawson."

And he was tired of using his last name. He hated the fact that she didn't share it. That there was no Rose Dawson. 

**A/N: OK, so I had about three ideas for multi-chapter stories in the last week. It was simply a battle of which one got written down first to be the one that gets published. I guess this one won. The next chapter is coming ASAP. Hope you enjoyed. **


	2. Rose

Rose Dawson had spent her entire life trying to fit in. At first with the wealthy and famous where her mother had convinced her she belonged. Then with the commoners, where he had proven she belonged. She didn't really know how to blend in with either group; she didn't care about the frivolous conversation topics of the upper class, but she didn't really know how to fend for herself with the lower class. She needed him to show her how, just like he was going to show him how to ride a horse.

Learning to help herself survive was much like learning to ride a horse. She had never really done it herself, always riding side saddled like her mother preferred, but she had heard stories of the way cowboys rode their horses. She had grown up hearing horror stories about what it was like to live in poverty. Sure, it had sounded difficult, but something she could easily get used to. But she hadn't been able to just climb on the horse and ride it, ready for the snapshot. The horse had sensed her nervousness, her unfamiliarity, and stubbornly refused to let her ride. The lower class could see as plain as day that she didn't really belong with them, so they were very cautious around her. Just like the several tries it had taken Rose to get comfortable on the horse, it had taken her several years to be comfortable around her new social class.

The Rose of destitution was far different from the one of wealth. Though her acceptance by the poor was, at first, tenuous, she had moved to California and flourished in her new role. It had taken her a while to arrive in California, working her way across the country in whatever jobs were available to a single woman. Rose had settled in nicely in one of the poorer areas northeast of Los Angeles. The film market there was beginning to grow rapidly in the early 1920's. Though Rose definitely preferred live theatre, she had come out to California to visit the pier at Santa Monica and the movies had lured her in.

In fact, it had been a few months ago that she had made her first audition for a role with lines. Only one so far had proven successful. But Rose was now waiting at the end of the dirt road in front of her house for a car to pass by and take her in to yet another audition. It was taking longer today than it had the previous few days. Perhaps the word had spread that she was married.

Not that anyone needed to know that her husband was at the bottom of the ocean.

Rose had changed so much in the ten years since she had known him. Practically the minute she stepped off of the rescue ship, she had taken a pair off scissors and sliced off most of her hair. With it came the layers of falsities that her mother had built up over the years: the haughty name, the spoiled arrogance, the makeup caked on her cheeks, the entire porcelain doll image. She had kept her hair in the style of the day, but never past her chin, ever since then.

The crunching sound of tires on dirt made Rose look up to see the small buggy headed her way. A tiny smile broke across her face as she saw that it stopped.

"Are you headed south?" Rose asked as she stepped up to the open window. The man inside nodded and beckoned her in.

"Thanks for the ride, sir," she said, as she opened the door and settled herself on the soft seat in the back. "Normally my husband takes me into the city, but he's away today."

Sometimes she thought it was silly to still pretend after all these years. Ten years should have been enough to move on, to no longer feel the need to close herself off in the presence of men. But Rose felt that no time would be long enough to mourn her loss. She couldn't fathom the idea of feeling for someone else what she had felt for Jack.

She thought of the first time she had used his name. It had been the catalyst to her new life. Such a momentous occasion in her life. She knew she was never going to see her mother or cruel fiance again, but she wasn't thinking about them. The steward had startled her out of her sad thoughts to inquire about her name. It had come out naturally, without her even thinking about it. Her scattered brain almost betrayed her tongue, not recognizing the foreign name. But then the steward had simply walked away.

Rose had anticipated his catching her in the lie. She was almost eager for him to question the new name so that she could lash out at him. But he had simply accepted it as fact. How could someone not give him her own name? That was when Rose realized that it was her name. A simple fact about her that meant so little, yet so much. Rose Dawson. The second time she had said it out loud, it was no longer foreign to her well trained brain. It was simply truth.

"What you headed to the city for today, ma'am?" asked the man who was giving her a ride. It sounded like it was not the first question he had asked of her since she had entered the car, but she had not been paying him any attention. It would not do to be rude to her ride.

"Oh, I'm just headed to an audition."

"You're an actress?" He sounded surprised, but maybe a bit awestruck at her chosen career.

Rose nodded. She didn't really like talking too much about herself. But as she saw the man's warm smile glance back at her, prompting her to continue speaking, Rose couldn't help but tell a bit more of her story. "I've always had a love for the arts. Started acting fairly recently, I guess. Mostly small community theatres, but I did get the opportunity to join a traveling Shakespearian company. It was in St. Louis, maybe a year ago, that someone suggested I come out here and try my luck in the movies."

"So you just headed out on a whim?"

Rose smiled. She remembered being so envious of Jack for doing exactly that, and now someone had noticed it of her. "Yeah," she said.

The ride didn't take much longer. The man was actually pleasant company. Even though she was headed to an audition, she couldn't help but not feel a strange calm in his presence. She hadn't felt that way around anyone since—No. Compared to the calmness when she was around Jack, this man made her a nervous wreck.

When they finally arrived in sprawling Los Angeles, Rose prepared herself to feel the brisk spring air. Instead, it was just a warm breeze. Everywhere she had lived, up until now, Rose had had to be concerned about cold temperatures. It was nice to step out of the car and not prepare herself for the cold. Rose thanked the man kindly for the ride. She knew it would be more sensible to either move into the city or save up and buy a car, but Rose strongly preferred to live amongst the impoverished, however difficult it may be to get into work.

The number of people in the audition room was sparser than any of Rose's recent auditions. It heightened her hopes a little bit. Each girl was called individually into the room with the men in suits. Rose was one of the last in the room, when a heavyset man eyed her.

"Next," he said, his strong voice ringing in her ears.

Though Rose had never known herself to be timid, she felt small following him into the other room. She glanced around to see that it was a typical audition. Two generic men in well made suits glanced up at her.

"Name?" one of them asked mechanically.

"Rose Dawson," she said. She always loved saying her name. She only wished that _he _could have shared it with her.

**A/N: At least for the first few chapters I'll switch off between Jack and Rose's stories. Sorry this one was short, but Jack's story will have more action in the beginning parts. **

**Hopefully you noticed the change in title. The new title of this story and the quote in the summary are from "Fire and Rain," written and performed by the great James Taylor. **

**Anyways, thank you so much for all the lovely reviews. You guys rock!**


	3. Jack Revisited

Eight years. He had stayed in the same job in the same city for eight years. He hadn't remained in a place for longer than a year or two since the town where he was born. But something he couldn't quite identify was keeping him here in New York, working as the NYPD's sketch artist.

"It's close. I think maybe the eyebrows were a little bushier."

Jack looked down at his most recent sketch, gently pressing his pencil against the paper above the man's eyes. He shaded the eyebrow a bit making them appeal bushier. When he was finished he glanced up at the nervous man before him, who was clutching his hat between his hands. Jack turned the drawing over and handed it to him.

"That's him! That's the man that I saw running away from my store."

"Alright. Thank you for describing him, sir. I'll take this into the detectives and they'll see about distributing it." Jack knew the office protocol was to then send the witness into the waiting room where he would be met by the police. They would take his name and address in case he had to be contacted if it came to trial. "The police will want to take your name, but you can wait in my office."

The man still looked nervous to be a witness to a robbery, but was thankful to wait somewhere comfortable. Jack gave him a comforting smile and a hand to shake.

Deciding to give the witness his privacy, Jack made an about face out of his office for an early lunch. Today was Monday. He didn't really hate Mondays in the sense that most people did. Jack worked so much that weekends were really no better than weekdays. It was, however, early on a Monday morning that he had spent his last hours with Rose. He knew that the pain should not be this constant anymore. It had been over seventeen years for God's sake. Almost half his life. Jack found himself thinking these thoughts every Monday. People died all the time, he had to constantly remind himself, and he didn't know anyone else who was still mourning this painfully seventeen and a half years after someone died.

He knew that perhaps that was the reason he was still working and living in the city he had hated so much. He tried to avoid going south, by the harbour, but sometimes even walking the streets of New York he could feel her presence. Every time he felt her, the physical, almost incapacitating pain of not having her at his side hit him harder than it ever had before. Though he had always called himself a survivor, he had always wondered why the pain had not yet killed him.

But Jack knew that deep down, he liked the pain. He couldn't imagine himself ever finding someone else. He wondered if, one day, he may not feel the same pain, and that scared him witless. The truth was, he felt immense guilt that tied in with his grief to wear him down to a shell of person. He had given himself the task that night to care for Rose, at whatever cost to his own life, and he had failed. Miserably. She could have spent her life so much better; she had dreams and newfound freedom. He couldn't possibly conceive the fact that he was alive and she—wasn't.

Rose was also what he feared beyond anything else. Every time he sat down to draw, he was terror-stricken that he would accidentally draw her. He could handle seeing her face when he was prepared for it, in his dreams. But he couldn't even imagine the pain it would cause him to, unexpectedly, see her smiling back at him from a picture he had drawn.

He had even gone as far as pretending. When he had first arrived at this job, he had told the rest of the men he was married. Though he wanted to keep Rose's memory locked inside him, he would truthfully answer whatever questions about her they asked. It hadn't exactly made him feel better about her loss, but it sometimes made him feel less lonely if he could actually convince himself on a rare occasion that he was not returning home to a cold and empty apartment, but to a love filled home with his wife Rose. The department had believed him without a question for several years, but were starting to get suspicious that they had never seen Mrs. Dawson. Jack knew the rumors that were being spread about him, but he didn't give a damn.

As he pushed open the large door that marked the entrance to the police headquarters, Jack felt the air that, in late October was just beginning to feel wintry. He started to turn West, toward home, but Jack knew he wasn't feeling up to walking the narrow corridors and dark staircases that led to his apartment. He had been thinking of Rose enough today, he didn't need to walk through the corridors that reminded him every day of running through the depths of Titanic. Instead, Jack decided to spend some of his money at the deli down the street.

It was a little before noon, but the streets were empty. Jack had not seen New York ever look so calm, but he simply brushed it away as a factor of his lunch being earlier than usual. As Jack sat down with his tasteless sandwich, he thought about how catatonically he had spent the last seventeen years since the first time he had been in this city. He hadn't been drafted to the war because he didn't officially exist. His name had never been added to the survivor's list. He had no family and no bank account. The people in Chippewa Falls thought he had died with his parents in the fire. But sometimes Jack wished that he had gone to the war—it may have given him an opportunity to reunite with Rose.

He had to kick himself every time he had a thought like that. He hated being a hypocrite, and to join Rose now would be to break her trust in what he had taught her about living each day to the fullest. As Jack sat in the lonely deli in the lonely city, he gave himself an ultimatum. It was only a little over two months until the calendar turned to 1930. He would give himself that long to mourn this deeply over Rose. But as soon as the New Year hit, Jack promised himself that he would start to act more like the boy he had been when he knew her. More like the boy she had loved. He would leave his job at the police station and head to God only knew where. For the first time in many years, Jack could feel hope, that maybe he would be prosperous in the upcoming decade.

He now left the deli marginally happier than he had been when he entered. But the scene outside surprised him. Jack had been eating for less than an hour, but all of a sudden, the streets were packed. He had only seen the mobs of frantic people one other time. Instantly confused, Jack watched as an angry bank manager chased even more people out of the bank to join the throng outside. He only heard snippets of what the crowd was yelling.

"Save yer money from the bank!"

"Wall Street's plummeting!"

"Give me my money you bastard!"

Jack could hear a couple of fights break out. He was tempted to flash his police badge, but this seemed serious. He really didn't have the skill to break up a mad skirmish, so he simply hurried back to the station to see what was going on.

Even at police headquarters it wasn't clear what was happening until the newspaper headline the next morning. Wall Street had fallen rapidly and was continuing to do so. Economists were arguing with each other, but were overall puzzled. All that Jack and the rest of the world knew was that the Stock Market had crashed. Jack wasn't nearly as concerned about the news as the rest of New York. He had survived a fire that took the life of his parents, the first people he loved. He had survived the sinking of a boat that took the life of his Rose, the last person he would love. How could lost money kill him? He was no stranger to life without money.

Not long after Wall Street crashed and it was apparent that the American economy was headed south, Jack and another police officer were apathetically seated at headquarters on one of their rare breaks. The streets of New York were even wilder than usual while everyone was in turmoil.

"This'll be bad if it all keeps up," remarked the officer who was taking small sips of his coffee.

Jack looked around and, seeing that he was the only other person in the room, realized that the comment was directed at him. "Eh," he shrugged. "Life goes on." Under his breath Jack muttered, "and on and on."

As the other man started to speak, the door flung open. A head of grey hair poked through the opening.

"Caledon Hockley has just been found dead. This is the man that found him. Dawson! See if he can give you anything."

Jack tensed at the name. Obediently, Jack stood up and followed the pair of men to his office. It felt almost surreal. Cal was dead and Jack was assisting in his murderer's prosecution. He hoped it would be what Rose would want.

"Can you tell me who you saw?" Jack gently asked the witness.

Jack was lost in his thoughts as the witness spoke, only letting him make occasional amendments. When Jack finally caught a glimpse of what he was drawing, he didn't even hear the witness when he said, "It's really close. I think she was maybe a little older though."

It was Rose.

Jack's next few breaths were caught in his throat. As if his eyes would burn to look anywhere else, Jack couldn't take his eyes off the drawing. It drew him in, mesmerized by the face he had not seen in years. As he lovingly put his index finger on the soft lines of her hair, he felt the hard table below the paper. The top of which was adorned by a NYPD insignia.

This man had seen Rose.

Rose was alive.

This man was a witness to a murder.

Rose had killed a man.

"IS THIS A FUCKING JOKE?" Jack screamed at the witness. He tore the sheet of paper from the pad and threw his fist into the table in front of the man. "What made you think to come down here and report this?" Jack had not removed the tone of anger from his voice. The man in front of him was quivering.

"IT WAS SUICIDE!" he shouted, right in the witnesses face. "SUICIDE! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

The man nodded and ran from the office. Jack crinkled the page and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. He started walking. He didn't know where. For one minute he had believed that there was a glimmer of hope, that Rose was somehow alive. But he reminded himself that he had checked all the lists more than once. More depressed than usual, Jack realized that in his hope that she was the one his witness had seen, he had protected a woman. The woman who had killed Cal. He would bet anything that he understood her reasons, but it still made him feel guilty.

"I can't work here anymore." His muttered statement was as close as the man at the front desk would get to a resignation. As he pushed the heavy door open, Jack did what his younger self did best. He headed for the horizon.


	4. Rose Revisited

Rose threw herself on the bed in her empty house and pulled her knees up to her chest. The tears came fast and warm. Her carefully built up world was starting to crumble around her.

For the last eighteen years she had worked her best to create a situation that was comfortable. It was false, but comfortable—allowing Rose to thrive as well as she possibly could. Rose did her best to live out the dreams she had shared with Jack. She learned things she never would have imagined herself knowing—how to drive a car, ride a horse, feed and clothe herself. She wasn't cavalier about her life, which was Jack's final gift, but she was much less afraid of perceived dangers than she had ever been before. No, the only risks she took were letting little snippets, memories and reminders of her time with Jack into her life. Though the happiest times in her life were the times she was daydreaming about dancing with Jack, flying with him, making love to him, the time after she relived these memories were painful and full of despair. Eventually, she had created for herself an impenetrable shield to ward off any thoughts too painful.

But impenetrable was far too close to unsinkable for her taste. It felt—fallible.

She had dated, actually fairly often. Though she had not quite felt the tug of motherhood at seventeen, when she rethought the words of her promise, she knew she wanted to care for a child and to watch him grow. Her problem was, Rose wanted the child but she couldn't imagine allowing herself to trust anyone other than Jack enough to give her one.

That is why she was sitting on her bed with tear lines on her face. She had finally allowed herself to poke a series of holes in her blockade from men. She had enjoyed spending time with the handful of men she had become close with. She made easy friendships with most. She had even enjoyed kissing them. Tonight, however, she was with a man she had seen four or five times—a Russian actor she had worked with years ago. He was lacking in perceptiveness enough to notice neither the occasional first class air she put on nor her occasional slip into distraction.

They had gone to a speakeasy and he had introduced her to some of the warmest, most forbidden vodka she had ever tasted. It had comforted her from the first sip and Rose relaxed into the evening. It had felt so good to let herself go for a night. All of the recent worries that had been plaguing her mind were gone for a night.

It was well past midnight when she followed the Russian into his home. It was only a few blocks away from hers, but Rose had never noticed. When the door swung closed he kissed her fiercely and she closed her eyes and responded. His coat was off before they fell back on his large sofa.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the passage of time, but something shattered Rose's barrier that night. A smooth hand lightly touched her cheek before slipping down to the first button on the front of her dress. There was only a moment's hesitation before the lithe fingers slipped the button out of it's hole. Rose then felt his lips leave hers.

"Please Jack!" she shouted. "I need you Jack."

When he didn't respond, Rose's eyes flew open. In her entire life, she had never been more dispirited. The face that greeted her had cold grey eyes marred with confusion. The weight of the Russian man combined with her heavy heart threatened to strangle her. This was betrayal. He had died for her. _Died. _Here she was letting someone else become intimate. She owed it to him to let him to be the only one she shared this with.

She squeezed her eyes closed, trying in vain to stop the tears. With all her strength she shoved the Russian to the floor.

"Eighteen years ago I—" but as she looked back at the angry look in his eye, she just pushed the door open and ran back to her own home. First she had betrayed Jack, then she had almost told someone else their story. She had kept him locked inside her heart for so long. It would not do to let him out just for a man that she didn't really know all that well. She thought it her duty to protect her fragile world and his memory by keeping him away from the outside world.

"I'm sorry Jack," she mumbled through her tears as she ran home.

Now that she was curled on her bed, she could let the tears really flow. The leftover tears she hadn't shed for Jack were reserved for herself. She cried for they life they could have had—with children and a home that was anything but lonely. She cried for her future. That night she had realized she wouldn't—couldn't love anyone like she had loved Jack. The high point of her life had been for three days when she was seventeen. And though she had created a semblance of a happy life, nothing and no one would ever match what she had known with him. That night, Rose had given up trying to find love.

At this thought, Rose's anger started to rise. It was so unfair that someone like Jack didn't get to experience all of life. It had been years since she had allowed herself to feel this kind of pain. It was worse than she remembered.

Hoping for nothing less than a large dent in the wall, Rose grabbed the high heeled shoe off her foot and flung it across her bedroom. But another wave of tears came when she remembered that it wasn't really her room.

When the stock market had crashed only a few months ago, the public was less than willing to spend money on things like plays. Rose had given up on movies a few years earlier after appearing very briefly in two pictures. She much preferred live theatre. Unfortunately, the jobs in theatre were growing slimmer by the day. Rose had not been able to make the last few payments on her small house.

Her options were not great. Four years earlier, Rose had grown tired of taking rides with other people. She had saved up all of her money for months and months. Every paycheck she got went into the fund she had created for buying a car. She had never been prouder than when she had finally purchased a new GM pickup and learned to drive it. She cared for it with precision. She knew that Jack would be incredibly proud of her for learning to drive, something that almost no women took the initiative to do. It was this thought—of Jack's pride—that made her treasure her car above anything material she had ever possessed.

So now that she could not find work, she had to sell her house by the end of the month. She could not bear to lose the car she had worked so hard to earn. She could already tell that her career in acting was coming to an end.

The world that she had so carefully made for herself was ending. She had nowhere to live. She didn't think she could bear to build another barrier against the memories of Jack. She regretting living falsely for eighteen years. Now the pain would be even worse for the rest of her life.

Rose didn't even notice that she had drifted into sleep until she woke up the next morning in the same position, wearing the same clothes. She slowly got out of bed and leaned over the tap in her small kitchen. She splashed some water in her face, trying to erase the memories of the previous night and of her entire life. Her head throbbed from all of the crying. She mindlessly grabbed a handful of aspirin and collapsed in a heap on the kitchen floor.

A bit later, Rose felt alive enough to crawl over to the newspaper sitting innocently on her front porch. Couldn't the rest of the world see that she was in distress?

It only took one glance at the headline to convince Rose that the last eighteen years had not healed her by any means. There had been no reminders of her time on Titanic and she had convinced herself that she was doing fine—that she was healing. But at this time of weakness, when she was already thinking of Jack, every possible memory she could think of came flying back to her.

She was holding on to the stern of the ship by just the tips of her fingers. The cold wind was whipping her hair out of its form. She had never hated herself more. She had never hated life more. Was she only doing this to prove a point to Cal and her mother? She didn't really take the time to consider her reasons. She didn't care. All Rose knew was that she wanted out and she could only think of one way. But an angel had come to save her. Save her from herself, save her from her society's constraints.

"Don't do it."

Just the memory of the first words he had spoken to her broke her heart.

Again, Rose saw herself. She was numb and cold, her firm grip on his hand her only lifeline. Her saviour was gone. It would have been so easy to join him. It would have been perfectly acceptable, understandable, justified. She didn't want any part of a life that didn't include him. But then as the boat was going further and further away, she heard his voice again.

"Don't do it."

When she heard her own voice whisper his words, she was shocked back to reality. Rose was sitting on the floor of her kitchen with the newspaper open in her lap.

**IMPOVERISHED TYCOON HOCKLEY DEAD BY OWN HAND**

She didn't know what to feel. The news didn't exactly shock her, but she was so far removed from her former fiance that she wasn't exactly saddened either. The only thought occupying her mind made her wonder why he hadn't had an angel to ask tell him not to do it.

She didn't know exactly what she believed about afterlife, just that she somehow knew she would see Jack again. So her next thought scared her immensely.

"Be careful, Jack!"

After only skimming the article to see that he had left a young wife, a fifteen year old son, and a twelve year old daughter, Rose flung the newspaper back onto the porch where she found it. She quickly gathered a small bag of clothes and got in her truck. When she turned on the ignition, she didn't really know where she was headed.

There was some farm work available up North, but she had heard that what little was available was only going to strong farm workers.

With only her small knapsack sitting on the passenger seat of her trusty truck, Rose drove without even glancing at the rearview mirror. The billboards passed her by without notice. The endless horizon of agriculture was the only thing Rose saw for her entire trip. When night fell, she was in an old mining town of Yreka. She parked the car and slept, ready to see if this was where her life would take her next.

**A/N: I'm so sorry for the delay in this chapter. I'm moving to my apartment next week and it's really time consuming getting everything packed. The next chapter should be up a little sooner. Thanks for reading. **


	5. J Dawson

After walking out of his job at the police station, something Jack couldn't identify was pulling him westward. But he had one necessary stop to make first.

His stop had been on the Upper East Side, a place where he ventured very seldom. The huge mansions and penthouses made him think of only one thing. One person, to be specific. He thought of how this world had trapped her and Jack became immediately claustrophobic in the presence of the large, fancy buildings.

But he had to know. Ever since he had seen the drawing of her, he had to know where she was. The whole previous night had been spent restlessly. Rose was alive. Rose had killed a man. Rose was alive. A witness had seen her kill him. But the witness had come to him and Jack had promised himself years ago that he would protect Rose. He had failed before. Now was his opportunity to atone.

That he had to force the witness to lie to protect Rose didn't really bother him. He understood why men on the police force had to stay uninvolved in crimes with personal connections. Anyone he knew would protect loved ones from criminal investigation. Jack even understood, perhaps beyond anyone else who was alive, why she would want to kill Cal. What worried him the most was why she had an opportunity to do so. Could she have possibly gone back to him after she got off the rescue ship? Could he have forced her to? Jack felt even worse than he did before. She had been stuck with that cruel man and he was just moping over her death.

Jack had to go out to the Hockley manor to see if he could possibly make amends. He wanted nothing more than to see Rose alive. Though he tried to convince himself that it didn't matter if things could go back to the way they were—that he was happy as long as she as safe—he didn't know what would happen if Cal had changed her too much in the last eighteen years.

So as Jack turned onto the street, looking for the address he had stolen from the file in the police office, he steeled himself so look at Rose once again. It was funny—he had dreamed of seeing her in so many unexpected places so often. Some of his happiest memories were of those dreams when he saw her again, they embraced for what felt like years, and lived the rest of their lives happily ever after. But now, that he was expecting to see her, he was almost frightened. Frightened that she was different, frightened that she had moved on, frightened to learn exactly why she had shot Cal. Frightened that what he had dreamt wouldn't happen.

He saw her hair first. Scarlet and long. Gentle curls hugging the shoulders of her amethyst gown.

"Rose?" he said out loud.

"What's that? Who's there!?" Her sharp voice echoed through the entrance hall.

She was young, barely older than thirty. Her perpetually frightened eyes were sunken and gaunt. Her dress was beautiful, but in hang very loosely on her miniscule frame. She couldn't possibly be taller than five feet.

Not Rose.

It hit Jack like a mallet to his gut. He practically fell over when he could not hold himself up against the pain of the blow.

"What are you doing in my house? I'll contact the police! My husband has—I mean—There's a gun in this house." Said the red haired woman, backing against a wall.

"Use it...please." Jack muttered sardonically, letting himself sit on the floor.

Apparently she heard. She hurried over and crouched next to him. "Sir? Is everything alright? Tell me your name."

"Jack," he said tersely.

"Is everything alright, Jack?" She repeated, her voice showing some friendliness.

"Um...yeah. I was just looking for someone," Jack said, trying to get up and leave, but the woman eyed his dirty suit that he had been wearing for over a day.

"My...uh...husband—Cal. Were you looking for him? He died—just two days ago."

Suddenly, it all clicked in Jack's brain. Rose had never been alive. She had never killed Cal. Cal had married a young, unobtrusive girl who looked like Rose to make up for his loss. Then, she had finally cracked. She rebelled against her husband and killed him. The witness had gone to Jack, but he had mistaken her for Rose. Now that Jack was looking at the girl and he wondered how he could ever mistake the two.

His Rose was passionate, fiery, and intelligent. Her eyes shone brightly, with love or anger, any emotion but fear. This woman seemed to cringe at his very presence. She seemed friendly enough, but appeared to be a hollow shell of a person.

It was then that Jack realized that it was his fault Cal's death was called suicide and not murder. One look at this woman, however, mitigated all of his guilt. She had been controlled and punished for years under Cal's thumb. Jack was actually proud of her for finally doing something about it. Unfortunately, she was not nearly as strong as Rose and only knew one way to do that. But Jack didn't blame her.

Cal's widow was looking down at him, expecting him to say something.

"Oh, it's just... you reminded me of someone I knew eighteen years ago." He stopped himself there. He had never told anyone of his time on Titanic. This was not the place to do it. She should not be the one to hear it. He quickly retreated and ran as fast as he could away from the house.

He ran straight to the train station. He bought the ticket that would get him to the west coast fastest. He didn't even look at the price or where it stopped. He just wanted to be far away. After a few days, he ended up in a podunk mining town in northern California. While he was on the train, he had decided to go to San Francisco. But tonight he would stay in the town's only inn. The next morning, he would buy another train ticket to San Francisco to try and see what he could make of the pieces of his life.

In front of the inn was a young woman with her children huddled around her. They were begging with a mining pan. Not long ago, that same pan had no doubt been used to seek luxury and wealth. Now it sought nothing but simple sustenance. Jack could see the poignancy of the image. Years ago, he would have drawn it. But all of his inspiration was gone. He could still draw—he had proven that by his sketch artist job—but he didn't think he could make art.

He remembered years earlier when she had reminded him that artists needed good light. He had realized that that was even truer than he had believed at the time. She was his light and he couldn't draw without it. Just as the rays of light had begun to seep back into his life, he had thought he was going to see her, only to be reminded that she was dead. His light had once again been snuffed out.

After a night of hardly any sleep, reminiscent of the few nights right after he had lost her, Jack woke up with a throbbing headache. He filled his coffee percolater, anticipating his calming drink. He carefully unwrapped the two coffee mugs from his bag and filled them nearly to the brim with the warm liquid, followed by a small amount of cream.

His cup, and Rose's.

He had done this for years. He usually ended up drinking the second cup himself, but if for only a moment he could make himself believe that she was just in the other room, and would come to claim her coffee, he felt less lonely for that moment.

Jack nursed his cup for a short while. When she never came for hers, he swallowed what he could of it in one large gulp. Then he ran out of the inn and across the street to catch his train.

When Jack arrived in San Francisco, he thought about getting a dingy little apartment, but after the two train trips, he didn't think he could afford it. Instead, he went back to the boy he had been before he met Rose. It wasn't as comfortable as he remembered the streets to be, but Jack didn't care. He had been reminded once again of who wasn't with him. It would take a while to work back to contentment.

He wasn't the only one living on the streets. As the depression worsened, Jack grew thankful that he had experience at this kind of lifestyle. He already knew how to fend for himself. Every now and then, Jack would think back to the promise he had made himself—that as soon as the 1930's hit he would forget about Rose and he would be prosperous. He could only laugh humorlessly at his extreme lack of insight.

In 1933, the Worker's Protection Agency came to San Francisco. Though Jack had not drawn anything in several years, they needed people to paint murals. Jack did it mostly just to give himself something to do. He hated how apathetic he had become. Once the mural was finished, he decided he would travel around again. Though the world meant far less to him without her in it, he hoped that maybe she could see it through her eyes.

**A/N: Sorry if you're getting sick of the angst. I promise they'll meet soon. Expect an update on Wednesday or Thursday. Thanks so much for reading and for all of the amazing reviews. **


	6. R Dawson

Rose pressed her foot to the accelerator of her trusty truck. It had taken her all over the country for eight years. It had lasted through the worst years of the depression. It had continued to run even after she drove it up and down California, through the heavy heat of Texas, across snowy Vermont, and most recently in the cornfields of Iowa.

In fact corn was all she had seen since she crossed the Missouri River yesterday. She knew exactly where she was headed, but she didn't really know how to get there. Based on the last map she had seen, it would have been better to find Minneapolis and head East, but Rose knew she was well south of there. It had been over twenty years, but Rose finally thought she was strong enough to see Chippewa Falls. She needed to see it. But right now she was lost in the corn somewhere in Iowa.

Luckily, the sun had risen only an hour ago and was still hanging low in the sky, guiding her East. Rose had wanted to take the journey herself—with no help from anyone. She wanted this to be the special time with Jack. Maybe she would finally be able to stop some of the constant pain. She knew she would never love anybody as much as she had loved him—she had realized that years ago. In fact, she had given up on any sort of relationship. So she wanted this journey to Chippewa Falls to just be her and Jack.

But her frustration grew when there was a curve in the road and all she could see for miles was corn. It was just at the height of this frustration that she passed a small farmhouse. Angry with herself for asking for help, Rose got out of the car and knocked on the door.

A middle aged man with red skin and dirty overalls answered the door. It was the swelteringly hot late summer of the midwest, and this man had obviously spent his entire summer farming his acres of corn.

"What's a pretty little lady li' you doin' out here on the road?"

Rose rolled her eyes at his greeting. After all her years alone, she was used to men talking to her strangely. She knew when she needed to pretend to have a husband.

"I'm trying to get to Minneapolis," she said adamantly. "Actually a little East of there." For some reason it felt too personal to tell this farmer exactly where she was headed.

"Minneapolis? The big city? That's a long journey for ya. Sure you're up to it?"

"Yes sir," she said. "I am, I just need directions."

"Continue the way you was goin' till ya hit Des Moines. Then turn left." He nodded her away and shut the door.

Rose glared at the man through the closed door for only a moment, before chuckling and returning to her car. Des Moines. Turn left. Minneapolis. Turn right. Jack.

It took another day and a half of slow dusty roads to finally reach the Eastern border of Minnesota. She pulled to the side of the road, wanting to catch a glimpse of the sign welcoming her to Wisconsin. When she saw it, she wished she had thought to bring the camera. She knew she hadn't traveled as far around as Jack, but Wisconsin was sort of her ultimate goal. It was where his journeys had started. Perhaps it could be where her journey could end. It had taken her years of seeing America to find the courage to come here.

But it was evident as soon as she got back in the car and drove over the imaginary line between Minnesota and Wisconsin, that she lacked the courage to come here.

It hit her fully that she was in Wisconsin. Wisconsin. The same place Jack was born and raised. Jack. As if a dam behind her eyelids had burst, the tears streamed down her cheeks in floods. She thought of the years of her life she had been missing him—how she had only felt like half a person. Now her car was standing on the same soil as his hometown. Even though she had only known Jack for three days, she almost couldn't imagine his life while he lived here. She had known him as such a free spirit, always traveling around. As the tears continued to fall, Rose gripped the steering wheel with all of her strength.

Simply to give herself something to concentrate on besides her tears, Rose did a small calculation in her head. The people in Chippewa Falls had known him eighteen hundred times as long as she had. They had had fifteen years to meet the wonderful boy she still loved. She had had three days. She wondered if anyone in town would still be mourning him so severely. Did she want them to be?

But she knew—she had known since she had crossed the state line, really—that she would never know what the people of Chippewa Falls thought of Jack. She would never go there. Jack had been wrong when he had called her courageous and strong. She didn't even have what it took to visit his town. In the presence of her memories, Rose cowered like a child before a great monster.

Her foot never left the pedal. Her white knuckles never left the steering wheel. Her eyes never left the road. Not until she was far enough away. She drove through the night—through Illinois and Indiana, into Ohio. Her face was red and swollen, but she could do nothing but pull to the side of the road, lean her head against the dash, and sleep.

When the heat of the summer's day awoke Rose the next morning, she discovered she had landed in Toledo Ohio. She drove around the town, searching for a cafe. Though her saved up money was nearly gone, she wanted some food to get her mind off of her mad drive through Wisconsin.

After a cup of coffee and a piece of dry toast, Rose had already decided that this town was not for her. Though she had had no real destination when she set out, it still felt like she was too close to Chippewa Falls. What she wanted was to get on the road and drive. Drive until she found home.

She left the money for her food and was back on the road. Rose didn't even know what direction she was headed, and frankly, she didn't care. She drove until she noticed the thick, dark clouds that had begin to set in amidst the handful of skyscrapers. It appeared that she was nearing a big city.

But before she could even figure out where she was, her truck made a moaning screech, almost as if it were dying. It surprised her when her momentum forward suddenly stopped. She fell forward as the truck screeched to a halt. Smoke was hurriedly escaping the truck's hood. Rose pushed open her door, stepped out of the truck, and slammed it shut. Fuming, she walked over to the engine and placed her palm on the hood. Overheated.

"Dammit! Stupid car!" she shouted, kicking the tire with all the force she could muster.

Glancing at the buildings around her, Rose looked for any indication of where she might be. A nearby factory was still working into the evening. She wandered a block down the street, not forgetting where her car was, until she came upon the Detroit public library. Detroit. That's where they made her damn car. There had to be a mechanic around somewhere.

Hurrying up the steps of the library, Rose frantically searched for an area with local business listings. She breathlessly ran her finger down the list. Only a few pages in to the large stack of papers, she passed automotive manufacturing to automotive mechanics and repair. The first listing was for diamond auto repair. She was immediately repulsed by the name that made her think of her former life in the upper class. It was almost funny that her car needed repair or she was stranded, yet all Rose could think of was shunning a mechanic that reminded her of bad memories. She paid it no further mind, however, when she noticed that the second one listed was open until 9 pm. A quick glance at the clock told her it was only half past six. Rose asked the librarian for directions to the mechanic and started walking.

The mechanic's shop was flooded with light. The bugs that loved the muggy midwest summer were hovering around the lights. Inside, it smelled of tire rubber, gasoline, and elbow grease. Definitely a man's touch. Rose chuckled to herself as she remembered the advice she had been given when she first bought the car. If she ever needed to go to the mechanic, she should pretend to have a husband who would know if she had been overcharged.

Stepping into the store and hearing the door click behind her, Rose looked up to see a young man behind a seemingly out of place brightly painted counter.

"I was hoping you could help me, sir, my car broke down just a few blocks away."

The young man glanced up from the radio he had been listening to intently. Rose could tell it was a baseball game. "You—uh—like the Tigers?"

Rose smiled. "To be honest I'm more of a White Sox fan. They're the closest team to where my husband grew up. He's always supported them." Rose actually cared little about professional baseball, but once, years ago, she had met a man from Madison Wisconsin and had happened to ask him what sports team he supported. Rose didn't really know who Jack had supported, but she decided that another man from the same state might like the same team. Though she had never officially followed the White Sox, she had always hoped they would win.

He just grunted in response. "So you say your car is broken down not to far from here?"

"That's right."

"Okay, I'll get the tow truck started. You just wait here Mrs. uh—"

"Dawson. It's Mrs. Dawson."

* * *

The mechanic gave her a bit of a strange look, but by the time Rose registered it, she was sure she had imagined it, because he was started to ask her questions about the car.

--

Jack stepped in from the garage, letting the door slam behind him. It had been a long day. The last customer had tried to claim that his car had been damaged while in Jack's care. Now he had to file all sorts of documents. Jack hoped he was nearing the end of his days as an auto mechanic in dirty Detroit.

He wanted to go ask the other boy on shift tonight if he wouldn't mind letting Jack step out for a cigarette, but as he looked up and saw he was with a customer, Jack thought better of it.

Staring at the small print on the claim, Jack rubbed the creases in his forehead. When he was actually fixing cars, it was backbreaking. When he was doing paperwork, it was worse than it had been at the police station in New York. He guessed he should have been happy that he was lucky enough to have a job, but the worst years of the depression were gone. He had been thinking for quite a while that it was about time to leave. Something, though, kept telling his gut to stay on for just a few more weeks.

He looked away from the desk he shared with all of the other men who worked there to the door that was opened a crack. He could hear that the man in front was listening to the baseball game. The girl he was helping liked the White Sox.

"Lousy White Sox," he muttered to himself. Earlier this season they had beat his beloved Philadelphia A's, dashing any hopes for the World Series. He liked the sport of baseball, but had never had any local teams to support. He knew that Rose didn't really have happy memories of Philadelphia, but she had spent basically her whole life there. her hometown was one of the few items he was privileged enough to know about her, so in Rose's memory, he almost rabidly supported the A's.

He got up from his chair to shut the door. He was already distracted enough, he didn't need to listen to the baseball game. but just before he could close the door, he heard the boy working in front lead the customer out the door.

"So what make and model is the car, Mrs. Dawson?"

Jack squeezed his eyelids together. Sure he had a common name, but he couldn't shake the feeling that that woman had stolen Rose's name. He immediately felt betrayal. That girl had no right to the name. It belonged to Rose, and the White Sox lover in the store was using it without any regard. He had not even laid eyes on the girl, and he already disliked her. As Jack's thoughts caught up to him, he realized just how ridiculous they sounded. He found himself hoping that the other boy working would get back quickly so that he could ask for the rest of the night off to gather his thoughts.

--

"God, Mrs. Dawson, I don't envy anyone with car trouble in this weather," said the young mechanic as he stepped out of the tow truck and hitched her old pickup. "It looks right like it's gonna storm. Mark my words—as soon as it gets dark the thunder showers hit."

Rose shivered at the thought of being stranded—or trying to drive—in the thunderstorm. And he was right. It did feel inordinately humid today.

"Let's just get this back to the shop," he said. "I think it might be Jack's shift tonight. He's not the fastest man we've got, but he'll fix your truck up right."

Rose blinked at the name, but she had gotten used to hearing it years ago. "Should I look for somewhere to stay?" Rose asked, not liking the answer she was anticipating. Her money was starting to run out, and a hotel in addition to this mechanic work would set her back quite a bit. She told the mechanic she would meet him back at his shop once she found a hotel.

--

Jack was standing in the store when he saw the door swing open. He suddenly saw a small keyring floating through the air and caught it with trained reflexes.

"See if ya can fix the pretty lady's car before the end of the year, ok?"

Jack sighed, preparing himself to look under the hood of the car of the girl who had been in earlier. Moving with a staccato to his step, Jack angrily made his way to the garage to check on the truck. At least it wasn't a Renault. That was one of the many things that made this job hell. Only once had someone brought in a car that old, but Jack was constantly scared that it would happen again. But as he glanced up to the sky, his mood was darkened further. It looked like it would storm tonight. Lovely.


	7. Jack Dawson and Rose Dawson

Jack pushed the sleeves of his shirt up past his elbows, getting ready to check the damage on this lady's car. He had been in an angry mood all day and just wanted to go lie down in his empty bed and see Rose in his dreams. He guffawed sardonically at what his younger self would think of him. He had not "made today count." In fact, he hadn't really made any day count for at least a few months.

He was 42 years old and he was still pining for a woman he had known when he was 20. But his dreams were the only part of his day that mattered anymore. And in his dreams, he and Rose never aged. Jack tried to imagine what she would look like if she were with him today. She would be 39. Unless, of course, she would have had a birthday since April. Jack didn't even know her birthday. He yearned for the life that they could have had, growing old together. He thought of his own graying and thinning hair, but Jack imagined that her hair would stay as bright red as it had been the day he met her.

Jack felt like the car in front of him was almost a mirror. It had been trustworthy for thousands of miles, but was now old. After driving back and forth across the country, it had come home to Detroit, to its birthplace, to die. Jack apathetically moved some tools around under the hood. He was about to give up and pronounce the car dead, when a head of long red hair flashed through his memory. She would have not wanted him to be so apathetic. Sighing, Jack opened up the hood once more to see that the car had been well taken care of over its many years.

It looked like the truck was actually healthy. The brakes were as sharp as on a new car, the gas line was intact, and the engine was clean. Jack couldn't figure out why it wouldn't start. Maybe cars, too, could have broken hearts.

He thought of his own heart which had been long dead. Maybe he needed a jump start. Smiling, for the first time in a while, Jack realized he could probably try that on the car. It may be silly—giving the car a jump start to fix its broken heart—but for some reason that he couldn't comprehend, Jack really wanted to fix this woman's truck. As he headed back into the shop to find the jumper cables, he wondered if his idea might actually work.

--

Rose was angry. It was already dusk and she didn't have a hotel for the night. Everywhere in Detroit seemed to be booked or well out of her price range. Usually in this situation, Rose would spent the night in the cab of her truck, but it was at the mechanic. She cursed her rotten luck.

Now she was walking back to the mechanic shop, trying to see when her car would be finished. Earlier, she had been told that one of the slower men was on duty tonight. And his name was Jack, no less.

"Ah, hello Mrs. Dawson. Were you able to find a hotel for the night?" said the man working in the front of the shop as the door swung closed behind her.

Rose glared up at him. "No, sir. So I was hoping my car would be available."

"It shouldn't be too long," he said as Rose heard a door behind her open. "In fact, here comes Jack now. He looks about finished."

Rose was about to turn around, but she wanted to be sure she warned the mechanic not to overcharge her.

"And I should let you know that my husband will look at the car as soon as I get home. He'll know exactly what you did and how much it was worth," she said adamantly, staring the man down.

"Yes, of course," said the mechanic. "This was the husband who liked the White Sox growing up?"

"Yes, him."

Rose heard the door behind her swing closed again, Jack the mechanic must have just come in to pick something up. "So can you tell if my car will be ready?"

"Yeah, he just came in to get a jumper cable. It should only be a minute."

Rose couldn't believe she had gone through this entire ordeal just to have some smug mechanic give her car a jump start.

--

Jack pulled to door to the auto repair shop open. For the first time in quite a while, he was happy about fixing a car. However, the sight in front of the counter made him stop in his tracks. He had only seen hair that shockingly red once before. It had been long and curly. He closed his eyes and remembered how soft it had been to his touch. Hair that color only existed anymore in his dreams.

He knew it wasn't Rose standing at the counter. He had thought women were Rose before and it had ultimately crushed him. He knew firmly that she was dead. This woman's hair was short and straight, but the color still hit him hard.

Rose was the one who owned the old, heartbroken truck.

As Jack realized what his brain had just thought, he blinked. He had subconsciously named the woman with red hair Rose. It was not her name—even if it were, he would call her something else. How about Helen? That was a nice name for her.

Jack walked over to pick up the jumper cables and heard Helen speak.

"And I should let you know that my husband will look at the car as soon as I get home. He'll know exactly what you did and how much it was worth."

Jack laughed. That was the oldest trick in the book. He was actually offended that she would think he would purposely overcharge her because she was a woman. But he realized that she had never met him, so she had no reason to trust him.

He picked up the cables and started to head out the door when he heard the young man speak again.

"This was the husband who liked the White Sox growing up?"

So she had mentioned a husband before? Maybe Rose actually did have a husband.

"Helen," Jack scolded himself under his breath. He didn't know why his heart told him to name this woman Rose, but he listened to his head, who named her Helen. She was none of his concern. All he knew about her was that she was married, had red hair, and was having car trouble. Trying to remind himself that her name was Helen, Jack went out to fix Rose's car.

--

Rose was furious that all her car needed was a jump start. Now she would have to pay all sorts of mechanic fees. At least she could walk outside and make sure she was there when her car was ready.

She glanced around the dark parking lot until she saw a tall man bustling between her truck and another car. The hoods of both were open. She watched for a moment as he ran a hand through his hair. Jack used to do that. But she didn't want to be reminded of him yet again. Rose wasn't sure if, without any freezing water, this night could get any worse.

As if to prove her wrong, a fat raindrop hit her squarely on the back of her hand. The cashier's prediction of a storm had been right. Rose groaned and started to walk over and see if her truck was finished.

The mechanic still had his head under the hood of her truck when she approached. She cleared her throat to announce her presence, but he simply finished working.

"Rose...uh, Helen...er, sorry ma'am. Your truck should be fixed now," he said, a bit mumbled, from underneath the hood of the car.

Rose really wondered why this mechanic was guessing at her name—and why he had guessed right the first time. "No, you were right the first time. It's Rose."

Before she could find out why he had guessed at her name instead of asking, the cashier came running out to where she and the mechanic were standing.

"Mrs. Dawson!" he shouted. He stopped for a minute, sending a strange look in the direction of her truck, but then he continued moving toward her.

"What," she asked, a bit exasperated.

"I've been calling around and there is a hotel available in Windsor tonight. The ferry runs late."

Rose paled. No, she was not up for a ferry ride. And what was this strange man thinking, going to all the effort to find her a hotel, especially when it looked like her car actually would be fixed fairly soon.

"Um, no thanks," she said a bit nervously. "It seems the truck will be fixed. I...um...don't need to spend the money." Even talk of boats had always made Rose nervous. She just wanted to get away from the mechanic shop. "Could you please just give it enough of a jump for me to get home? I'll have my husband look at it." Rose would get an auto repair book out of the library if she had to, but the mechanic whose face she couldn't see and the overly friendly cashier who unknowingly talked about the ferry were beginning to make her uncomfortable.

"Try it now," said the mechanic. "And I don't believe you actually have a husband."

Rose was shocked at the mechanic's boldness. Was she that transparent? She opened the car door as the mechanic closed the hood and strolled around behind the truck.

"How can you assume I would lie about that? You don't know me!" She said angrily, slamming the door of the truck as she sat in the driver's seat. She didn't even catch the significance of the words, until she heard a very familiar voice speak from behind her truck.

"What's his name?"

Rose was too frozen by his words to look out of the open window. She was too afraid that he wouldn't really be there. She steeled herself, and glanced in the rearview mirror.

"Jack," she whispered.

--

Jack had just attached the jumper cables to each of the vehicles, when he saw Rose—Helen approaching. He still couldn't force himself to call her anything but Rose. He couldn't even figure out why he had tried to name her. He didn't name any of the other customers whose cars he fixed.

But as she neared, her figure and her manner of holding herself were just too familiar. His imagination gave the woman in front of him long, flowing hair. She looked like Rose. But it was dark and he had been hurt far to badly before. His stubborn mind would not let himself even begin to believe it.

Besides, this woman was married to the White Sox fan.

But she got closer and closer, and Jack's heartbeat began to race. Could it possibly be? He stuck his head under the hood of the truck. He wanted to be sure who was in front of him before she could see his identity.

"Rose...uh, Helen...er, sorry ma'am. Your truck should be fixed now," he managed to get out. Shit! He had called her Rose. He could feel himself starting to get nervous.

"No, you were right the first time. It's Rose," she said gently. Oh God. He gripped the engine tightly to keep himself from going to her. She's married. It hit him so hard. He thought his heart had been lost forever, but he felt like a train had found whatever parts remained, and run over them. He would keep his face hidden. She didn't need to see him.

As Jack's brief glimmer of hope was shattered, he saw the cashier walking out from the shop.

"Mrs. Dawson," he called.

Who the hell was he talking to? Jack must have been thinking of Rose too much that he misheard when the young man called for him. But as he stared to look up, he saw that Rose also looked up. Was she just reacting to his name?

"What?" she asked.

She had answered to Dawson. It was a common name, but he couldn't imagine marrying someone else with her last name. Jack's confidence urged him to realize that she felt the same. She had been using his name all these years. Her name was just about out of his mouth, when the cashier started to speak again.

"I've been calling around and there is a hotel available in Windsor tonight," he offered. Jack couldn't believe that he had done all this extra work for Rose. He was—flirting with her. It made Jack queasy. But not as queasy as his next words.

"The ferry runs late." Jack realized exactly what the cashier had said. The hotel he had found was in Windsor. It was across the river. He still wasn't up to taking the ferry. As is protective instincts started to kick in after years of dormancy, he was angry at the younger man for even suggesting it.

He wanted nothing more than to go and put his arms around Rose as she mumbled out an answer. Now that she was so close and he knew without a doubt that she was alive, his hand felt very empty without hers clutched inside. But he could do nothing but stand there, he didn't want to scare her. She would just have to hear his voice and gently look up.

"Try it now," he said. It was all he could think of to save her from her rambling. But as he closed the hood of the car, his pride in the woman before him grew. He hadn't even registered before that because she had brought in the car, she had learned to drive it. Even he hadn't learned to drive a car. Partly because he had mostly lived in cities so it was unnecessary, but partly because the first time he had ever set foot in a car was when he made love to Rose in the Renault. His job as a mechanic was difficult, but fixing the cars didn't mean he had to drive them.

But he watched Rose walk over to the driver's seat. He had only said three words, so maybe she hadn't recognized his voice. He wished she would look up. He wanted her to see him. But she had already opened the door. He was pretty sure her car would now start, but that was the last thing in the world he wanted. If she didn't look up and her car started, he might never get a chance.

He remembered that she had mumbled something in her discomfort about her husband fixing the car. He wondered if she was thinking about fixing it herself, maybe guided by a book. She was still the same Rose he loved. But she had to look up at him.

Luckily, he knew exactly what would rile Rose up. "And I don't believe you actually have a husband."

He heard the door slam and her voice though the open window. "How can you assume I would lie about that? You don't know me!"

At the familiar words, a single tear fell down Jack's cheek. He loved her so much. And now she was back. He knew her words would hit her too, but to make it faster, he spoke once more as he started running to her truck.

"What's his name?"

He jumped into the back of her pickup and glanced through the window into the rearview mirror. He saw her look up, and for the first time in years, their eyes met.

"Jack," she whispered.

**A/N: They finally met! Reactions next chapter, which, unfortunately, may take about a week. I'm sorry in advance. And I scoured the internet to see if jumper cables existed in the 1930's and I couldn't find anything that told me one way or the other. I'm a bit inclined to say they didn't, but it was too good of a metaphor to resist. If any of you are car history buffs, I apologize. **


	8. Reunited

**Oh my god! I'm so sorry for the exceedingly long delay. I know it's not really an excuse, but I've been so busy. I moved last week, as well as had my birthday and I volunteered for more hours than I expected to at a kids camp. Thank you so much for all of the amazing reviews from all of you amazingly lovely readers. There will be two or three more chapters after this, but I can't tell for sure when they will be out. Enjoy!**

The car door flew open and a flash of color darted from within. Before Jack could even register that she was headed his way he saw her climb into the truck bed and felt her arms around his neck. As if with a mind of their own, his hands found their way around her shoulders. They kissed then.

It was not passionate and searching like the first time they had kissed. This time their lips simply met by pure instinct—a physical need to be connected. They broke apart and met again over and over, confirming the reality of what had just happened. They were actually together. The kiss shattered any lingering doubt in Rose's mind that this was actually Jack. Only one person's kisses had made her feel like she was simply and extension of the other person's being. It hit her that it was actually Jack she was kissing—alive and well—and all she could do was break away and lean into his shoulder.

She felt the tingling pain in her chest that felt like love and anticipation and awe all wrapped into one emotion. Perhaps it was a side effect of her broken heart mending too quickly. It had gone from shattered one moment to overflowing the next. She had gone for 22 years expecting to see Jack around every corner but knowing, deep down, that she never would. She had seen him almost nightly while she was asleep. Now, her body was pressed against his, and it was real. And it felt even better than the dreams.

"It really is you," she spoke, awestruck.

Jack could only smile down at her and not vigorously, trying to quell the tears.

Putting a firm arm around her shoulder, Jack saw his new future unfold before him. He pictured himself happy and loving, much like the man whom Rose had met all those years ago. Like the man he had pretended to be for most of the time since then. He imagined Rose in her bare feet walking around in his small house, just like he had seen so many times before in his nightly fantasies. Only now, these thoughts were purely happy. He would never have to wake up from this and go back to his empty life.

Less than an hour ago, Jack had been the lonely brokenhearted man who had been living so apathetically. He didn't even recognize that emotion anymore. Rose's presence had filled a void in his heart, allowing him to feel again. He was no longer simply living his life waiting to die and meet her again. Perhaps he even had died, but such trivial matters as whether he was alive mattered little now that he was reunited with Rose.

For here they both were, alive and well and huddled together in the back of Rose's pickup truck. As she took his hand and traced the lines of his palm, he couldn't resist chuckling.

"What?" she asked.

"Seem familiar?" he indicated their location with a slyness in his voice that had been missing for almost as long as Rose.

"Jack!" Rose squealed, glancing around. "In the middle of a parking lot?"

His name felt so comfortable to her lips. For so many years, she had visualized the letters of his name bouncing off of the hollow walls of her brain. She had refused for a long time to even say it out loud. But now it sounded like music when she simply shouted his name.

"I've missed you so damn much, Rose. I've missed saying your name, I've missed kissing you and holding you. Let's just stay here forever."

"Here? I thought we established that the middle of a parking lot would be an exceptionally bad place to spend forever," Rose said with a grin.

Jack cracked the widest smile he had since the last day he had seen her until she kissed him intensely.

Jack was floored at how he was currently being kissed. He had tried to move on, he really had, but he wondered how any other girl could have even began to compare to Rose. Even when he was twenty his sexual experience had been a bit limited compared to most of his companions, but since then he may as well have joined the monastery. But even though his tongue was not used to another mouth, and even though his teeth were not accustomed to having a woman's tongue between their crevices, he had never felt more comfortable than he did right now.

He sort of noticed that it was now dark and the rain was beginning to fall hard around him, but right now dryness was a secondary concern behind not moving from where he was currently seated.

"God Rose, it's been twenty two years but it's almost like you've never left. Even though it was only an hour ago, I can't really remember what my life was like."

"What even happened?" she asked. "I was sure you died that night. Why couldn't we have known back then. Then we could have been together this whole time."

"Let's not talk about this now—" he started, but as Rose began to protest, he continued. "It is very important to talk about, but we have plenty of time this time. And I guess we have to make all of that time count."

"Are you still telling everyone that?" she laughed. "Because I tried, I really tried. I think it just made me admire you even more when I found out just how hard it was to never be cynical."

Jack laughed. "No. In fact, I really haven't been living that way at all. I'm so different from the man you knew back then. I thought all that "making it count" stuff seemed really childish the whole time you weren't with me. Anyone with the right attitude can "make it count" without any money, but I just couldn't do it without the woman I love."

"I've changed too, Jack. I like to think in some good ways, but I've always felt so...incomplete."

As they continued to speak, they inched closer and closer together. Soon, they had completely forgotten everything of the outside world—the fact that Jack was still technically at work, the fact that the clerk was still waiting for Rose to pay for the work on her truck, and the fact that the rain was continuing to fall hard. Rose hadn't even really noticed the heavy raindrops hitting her until she brushed a thumb across Jack's cheek and noticed moisture.

"Oh my god! Jack, it's raining!"

Jack smiled as he looked down at their wet clothes and hair. It should have been pretty obvious that it was raining.

"Let's get inside," he said. He started to head back into the mechanic shop, but Rose stopped him and pointed to the cab of the truck.

"Will it run?"

"I think so," Jack began. "I didn't get a chance to start it yet, so I don't know. But it was the nicest—er, second nicest car I've ever seen. Nothing was really wrong with it. Why?"

"Do you really want to stay here?" she asked, headed towards the truck. Jack hurried behind her so that he could pull the door open. When she felt him behind her, she turned around, a bit surprised. "No one's opened a car door for me in 22 years. I guess I forgot about that."

This was when Jack first realized that she was no longer wealthy. He had sort of noticed that her clothes were not made of the same fine materials, but she still looked well put together. The whole time they had been talking, money had not even come up. For a moment Jack wondered if she had just been hit badly by the depression, but he knew really that she had not been wealthy since Titanic. She had given up all the money simply for his memory. She had been living her life trying to emulate his. Jack had never wanted to embrace her tightly more.

But instead, the pair continued to stand in the open doorway in the pouring rain. Jack couldn't help but wonder just where she was living. There were plenty of places in Detroit where even he wouldn't have wanted to go. She had afforded the car a while ago, so his hopes were high that she was at least living somewhere safe.

"Where do you want to go, Jack?"

"Where do you live?" He asked almost too quickly.

"Well," she said, fishing a note out of her pocket. "Right now my address is a blue pickup truck sitting in the parking lot at," she glanced at the paper she had scribbled the mechanic's address on, "173 State street."

He looked at her strangely, recognizing the address of his job, but mostly awed that she remembered the words he had spoken to her mother. He didn't judge her lack of home, he didn't even reprimand her that living alone was dangerous.

"Stay at my house, Rose." He remembered a time when he had nothing to give her. Now, he wanted more than anything to offer her everything.

"You live in Detroit?" she asked.

"Yeah—I have for a couple months."

"I guess that was a stupid question," she chuckled. "But are you sure I can stay there? I don't mean to impose."

"That was another stupid question," Jack muttered.

When Rose slithered out of his arms, he was at first surprised. He thought he had said something wrong. But then Jack noticed that she was walking to the car door on the passenger's side with a smile. When she got in the truck, she leaned over the cab to face Jack through the still open driver's seat door to face Jack.

"I trust you," she shouted, tossing him the keys.

Jack looked down at the small ring of keys in his palm. He had seen hundreds like them, just in the few months he had been working as a mechanic. But he had never used them.

He thought back on the first time he had ever set foot in an automobile. He couldn't even remember what the red and black Renault looked like from the outside, but his experience on the inside had made him want to preserve all of the memories. Since then, the only time he had been inside a vehicle had been for brief moments when he would see if a customer's car would start. At first, knowing how to drive had been unnecessary, but soon, cars became a memory that it would be too painful to revisit. He had successfully avoided ever learning how to drive, but now he was more than embarrassed.

It felt like he was, once again, inferior to Rose. She had been able to start to move on. She had no problem with learning to drive a car. She even owned it and—as it appeared—lived in it. She had successfully dropped any hint of her haughtiness. Instead of moping, waiting to be reunited with him, she lived her life trying to honor him. Right now, he wasn't feeling particularly deserving of her honor. How could he tell her he had been to cowardly to learn to drive? Especially when she had handed him the keys, assuming that he would drive her home.

The inner workings of a car were simple. He had picked it up in only a few days after reluctantly taking the mechanic's job. Driving it could not be that much more difficult. The only thought on his mind was to prove to Rose that he was still worthy of her love. He took one look at her expectant, trusting eyes, sat down in the driver's seat, and turned on the ignition. He had done that much before, but his nervousness increased as he reached for the gear shift.

As he slowly backed out of the parking lot, Rose reached over as if to take his hand, but he put it firmly on the wheel. He didn't want her to feel his sweaty palms. The first few gear shifts went smoothly. He usually walked or caught a ride to and from work, so he didn't have far to go. Feeling slightly more comfortable, he glanced over at Rose, who was riding along contently. Before, he had worked so hard to gain her trust and now he was wildly abusing it, simply for his own selfishness. Jack felt rotten.

"Rose," he said seriously. "I feel like shit."

She wasn't bothered by the curse word, but by the utterly dismal tone of his voice. "Jack? What's wrong?" She asked, immediately concerned.

"I can't believe myself. After promising myself all those years ago that I would protect you with my life, I put your life in danger over and over again."

"Is this about Titanic? That's all behind us, love. We're together now," she put a gentle hand on his arm.

"No, Rose. It's that I was too stupid and embarrassed to tell you. I—I don't know how to drive."

Rose looked at Jack sitting behind the wheel. It was a sight she had seen before. But now, as she thought of that time, she realized that he had looked more comfortable then, when they were playfully exploring their new lack of boundaries, than he did now, when he was simply driving home from work. Surely he wouldn't drive with her in the car if he actually didn't know how to drive.

"Don't be stupid, Jack. You're doing fine."

"No, this is the longest I've been inside a car since—well—you know."

Jack couldn't exactly read her expression. She seemed to be mostly angry, but a bit surprised, maybe even a bit touched.

"Pull over," she said, continuing to hide her expression.

As Jack began to slow the car and look for the side of the road, he grew nervous that he had really messed things up. If Rose didn't want to be with him, he loved her too much to not honor that. But unfortunately, if that were true, he would have nothing in life to live for, and nothing in the afterlife to die for.

But when he nervously pressed his foot to the clutch and glanced at Rose, she smiled warmly. "How about I teach you to drive?" she asked.

"Really?" He grinned. He was just happy that she was speaking pleasantly with him after he had misused her trust.

"Of course, Jack. You've taught me so much. Least I can do is return the favor." She put her hand on top of his and guided him to steer to the side of the road. As the warmth of their hands touched, Jack and Rose each looked over to the other. Even after twenty two years, it still felt the same.

But they were still in a moving car. They heard a splash as the car traveled through a large puddle and slipped. Only moments after they looked up, they heard a thud and felt a collision in the same instant. Two sets of eyes grew large as the thick tree on the side of the road came into vision from the windshield.

"Damn it all to hell."

Jack saw how shocked Rose looked in the passenger seat and punched the steering wheel in anger. He pushed the door open and got out, making sure Rose was coming behind him. It surprised him when she collapsed into his arms. He remembered how well taken care of her truck had been. He had been the one to crash it, yet she was coming to him for comfort? Jack frowned and pulled away.

Rose wondered why Jack had pulled away. She had just wanted to teach him how to drive, but instead, she threw the car into a tree on the side of the road. She couldn't help but be reminded of watching the ship scrape the iceberg. Jack's arms were the only source of comfort she could think of, but he had pulled away.

"Well let's get home, it's raining out," Jack said, looking at the twisted metal of the car. He sincerely hoped that she would still be alright with spending the night at his house, especially since he was the one who had destroyed what she had been living in.

Rose was confused. Before, Jack had been the most loving person she had ever met. Now, he was taking her home, but seemingly only out of a sense of duty. She herself had changed, but it didn't seem possible for Jack to have changed so drastically.

She followed him as he walked away from what once had been her car. The rain was starting to fall heavier and colder. It was not long before both were completely soaked.

As a clap of thunder shook the earth they were standing on, Rose's first instinct was to hide in Jack's warmth. But as she moved toward him, she thought of his cool attitude since the car crash and thought better of it. Jack however, noticed this and put an arm around her shoulder.

"Jack?" she asked.

"We're almost there. Just take a right here and it's the third house."

Lightening continued to light up the sky as the storm grew more violent still. Trying to protect Rose as much as possible from the rain, Jack rushed up to his front door and let them in. The house was not large, nor was it completely decorated, but it was cozy, warm, and functional.

"Phew," said Jack, conversationally. "That rain was awful."

Rose smiled at his attempt to make light conversation, but knew they needed to talk. Before, they had been so free with each other. Was it simply time that had created a barrier? Had they put each other on a pedestal that was too hard to live up to?

"Jack, we need to talk."

"We do," he said somberly. He walked over to the small kitchen table and pulled out the single chair, indicating she should sit down. He never had any company, so he never had any reason to get a second chair. When Rose sat down, he hoisted himself onto the table.

After a short pause, they both spoke at once.

"Have you been a mechanic the whole time?"

"I really should have told you that I couldn't drive."

Rose was the first one to answer. "Why didn't you?"

"I guess I was just so proud of you for knowing how to drive it. I felt kind of inferior. I think I just wanted to give you something to be proud of me for."

"I'm not really proud of you for pretending, Jack."

It was the name that did it. As soon as Rose heard her own voice pronounce his name, she remembered just to whom she was talking. She had never stopped loving him, even after twenty two years. Perhaps the years had made her cynical and jaded, but she believed that she and Jack were meant to be together. Though a single lightbulb was on in the room, a flash of lightening from outside lit up his entire expression. He had made a stupid mistake, but who didn't? She thought of how her stupid mistake—crashing the car—had probably reminded Jack of Titanic. She was the only one who would truly understand everything Jack had been through that night and he would be the only one who would ever fully understand what she had gone through. She thought of what she had lived by for the last twenty two years—what she thought had been Jack's last words, his living will and testament. Jack was here now, and she would never let him go.

"I'm so sorry," Jack said.

"No, Jack, you didn't let me finish." He looked at her, almost afraid of what she might say next. "What I am proud of, is your ability to adjust to the situation. You learned how to fix cars, even though you hadn't driven one before, when you needed a job. That's what I've always tried to emulate about you.

"See, I tried so hard to go on with my life. I the first few years, I tried my hand at theatre. I joined a traveling company and toured the country with them. I enjoyed it because it reminded me of what your life was like. I learned how to act, I learned how to live without maids and all that garbage, and I even learned how to ride a horse."

"You did?" Jack asked.

Rose smiled widely, but continued her story. "When I got used to that, I got comfortable. When the stock market crashed I was out of a job and I couldn't adjust. That's why I've been living in the car for so many years. I just wasn't able to adapt to changed situations. Now I'm seeing how good you really are at it and I feel like an utter failure."

"You think too high of me," said Jack. "I haven't done one damn thing since I thought I lost you."

"You fixed my truck pretty well."

"But then I crashed it."

"You crashed it? I was the one who was trying to be a backseat driver."

"You were just trying to help me."

Their voices mimicked the storm outside as they grew louder. When they both were standing up, there was a crash of thunder and the lights flickered out. For a moment, the only sound to be heard was the heavy drops of rain hitting the roof.

"Jack!" Rose shouted. It had come out completely naturally. It had happened once before, when she had been in California. A bad storm had caused a leak in her roof, which lead to a flooded closet. It had instantly reminded her of running around below decks in the sinking ship, and her intuition had called out for Jack. That night, she had cried herself to sleep, mourning that she would never see him again. Now, the power had gone out in a similar storm, and she called for him once again. Only this time, his arms were immediately around her.

"I know, Rose. I've got ya." He knew exactly what this reminded her of, because it reminded him of Titanic too. His arms felt right where hey belonged when they immediately found their way to Rose. They both knew that their petty argument had not been magically forgotten, but perhaps they could start the night over again.

Jack took Rose's hand firmly and led her toward the living room. "There should be matches and candles in here," he said.

Rose clutched his fingers tightly and leaned into his body. She loved him so much. Even when they had been arguing, she had never really doubted that. Now was her chance to fix what had happened over the last twenty two years.

She heard a scratching noise and immediately saw Jack's face lit up by the orangey glow of a lit match.

"I don't know exactly where the candles are, but they're somewhere in the shelf next to you. Can you help me look?" Jack asked.

Though their search was hindered a bit by they clutched hands, as well as Jack's need to relight the match a few times, They eventually found two small candles and holders. When they were lit, the two fell into an embrace. When they kissed, it felt as if they were still the kids that had madly fallen in love in less than three days.

They both realized that twenty two years had, indeed, passed, and soon they would need to discuss what had taken place. But now they could just be together. With no fiances, no sinking ships, no class distinction. Just two kids who had fallen in love in less than three days and waited for each other for nearly a quarter century.

"Let's get warmed up," Jack said as he felt Rose shiver against him. He showed her to the bedroom with a candle in his hand. Rose was a little bit nervous at his implication, especially since she had been with a man exactly once in her life. But she was mostly excited. She valued the time she had spent in that car with Jack in her dreams and in her memories. If it could happen like that again, Rose would never want to leave.

When they arrived at the door to Jack's bedroom, however, it appeared that his plans were slightly different.

"There's clothes in the dresser. Take whatever you want and I'll make us a pot of coffee."

Rose was a bit frustrated with his chivalry, but giggled at how differently she had taken the phrase "get warmed up." Holding the candle to the dark room, she opened Jack's dresser with a bit of curiosity. It was not bare, but only a few plain shirts rested in the drawer. The bed was unmade, with a stack of old books sitting next to it. The room was kept neat with the exception of plaid pajama pants on the floor. Rose knew that Jack's clothes, especially his pants, would not fit her well, so she carefully dug through his drawers. When she found her selected articles, she peeled off her wet clothes and placed them on the windowsill.

It felt strange and yet intimate to be wearing Jack's clothes. It was the type of action that she imagined she would do if she had married him all those years ago. Only when she was so intimately acquainted with someone would she feel comfortable walking around in his clothes.

Jack was adding the water to his coffee pot by the light of a candle when he looked up to see Rose leaving his bedroom wearing—Oh Lord—she was wearing an old shirt and his underwear. He felt the physical signs of his passion for her for the first time in years and years. She slithered up next to him and kissed him squarely. This was the spontaneous Rose he remembered. The one he loved so much.

"I love you, Rose."

When he saw the shocked expression, he realized it was the first time she had heard it.

"I love you too, Jack," she said, and kissed him intensely.

When the kiss ended, she kissed his cheek once again. "Now you go change your clothes," she said. He took one of the candles and walked into his bedroom. Rose turned off the coffee pot, picked up the other candle, and followed him.

"You know, I've always had this fantasy involving you and candlelight," she said absolutely wickedly as the door swung open.


	9. The Dawsons

The only sign that it had pouring down rain the previous night was the handful of puddles in the paved street. In a small house in Detroit, the sun was just beginning to shine through the uncurtained window onto the two sets of clothes that were still drying from the night before on the windowsill. Loosely tucked in to the sweaty sheets of the double bed, the owners of the forgotten garments were sleeping well into the morning.

Jack opened his eyes against the bright light of the sun, and watched, mesmerized, as his bedfellow began to stir. He had seen her at her most vulnerable in so many ways, but he had never seen her asleep. Sometime during the night, she had rolled over so that she was sleeping on her stomach, with her fisted hand next to her face on the pillow. Though she had told Jack yesterday that her hair had been cut short for many years, it was still new to him. He thought of everything he didn't know about her―simple details like what she liked to eat, and larger things like what she had been doing for the last 22 years. He still saw the image of her as a fancy girl standing on the deck, looking at him standing in the world below her. From their simple conversation the previous night, he knew that she was no longer wealthy. She had been living in a car for most of the last few years. But he still could not quite adjust to her new image.

"Jack?" he heard her whisper before she opened her eyes. He gently took the hand that was resting on her pillow and spread her palm across his facial features, allowing her still half asleep form to feel that he was there.

"Jack! Oh my God, Jack, it's really you!"

"It was really me last night too," he said.

"I know that," she said. "But I had a funny dream that I was riding a train with Lindbergh, Jane Eyre, and my grandfather, so I guess I sort of forgot it was real by the time I woke up."

"I'm glad it was memorable," he said, trying to be jocular, but his voice had the tiniest hint of an edge to it.

"Jack..."

"I'm sorry," he said immediately, "I'm really screwing this up, aren't I?"

Rose moved her palm back to his cheek. "Maybe a little," she said. "But I am too. And you can't be screwing it up too much, because I have no intention of leaving."

Jack grinned. She could always make him feel better, even the thought of her during his deepest points of depression. He knew he wanted her to never leave. But then the horrible thought struck him―surely she was still in love with the man he had been twenty years ago. If she was expecting him to be the same...

But before he could allow the thought to infiltrate his mind, she rolled back over in bed. Her hair was matted and her lips were swollen, but her eyes seemed to glitter back at him. He could do nothing but lower his lips to hers and timidly press them together. After too short a moment, he opened his eyes, pulled back, and spoke. "Let's go get cleaned up. I'll make some breakfast."

He backed out of his unusually warm bed and walked across the room to his dresser. Pulling out the drawer, he noticed that he would have to do the laundry today. There was only one pair of clean pants left. He started to take them out of the drawer before remembering that Rose didn't have anything else to wear. He went and laid the clean pair next to her on the bed, pulled on the pair he had been wearing the previous day, and left the bedroom.

Rose had finally opened her eyes to see Jack unabashedly streaking across the room to his dresser. She didn't think he saw her smile up at him as he set out a pair of his trousers for her to wear. Taking a minute to really look around his room, she saw that it was very tidy. His few belongings were neatly placed around the room. It only looked lived in because of the clothes they had both discarded the previous night and the unmade bed. She was looking around for the art she would have expected to see, but had come up empty. There was a short stack of books on the bedside table, paced on top of what looked like a few sheets of looseleaf paper. She decided to ask him though, and wait for him to show her.

Though it felt strange to walk around in Jack's clothes that didn't fit, it felt quite intimate to be wearing what he wore. She pulled the door open, rushing out of the room to say a proper good morning to Jack.

As Jack began to prepare enough coffee for two cups, he thought back to all of the lonely days that he had had two cups himself, simply so that he could pretend Rose was there. Today, however, she actually would claim her coffee. When it was ready, he began the ritual of pouring the warm liquid into each of the mugs and stirring in the perfect amount of cream. But he had to look up when he heard her slightly distressed voice calling his name.

"Jack," she shouted, but when he looked up, alarmed, she realized she probably shouldn't have shouted. "Sorry, it's just that I take my coffee black."

Jack looked at the light brown color of her drink. It seemed strange that he had been making her coffee wrong all these years. But now that she was here he couldn't believe that he hadn't asked before pouring cream in her coffee.

"Maybe that's why you never came for it."

"What?"

Jack smiled, knowing he would have to explain himself. "Whenever I've made coffee, ever since I lost you, I've always made enough for two cups, hoping you'd come for your coffee. Mostly I'd just drink both after I remembered you weren't coming, but it was sort of a way to forget my loneliness for just a few minutes. I guess it just seems so natural that you'd want the same cup of coffee that's been waiting for you."

"You left a cup of coffee out for me every day for over twenty years?"

"Not every day, just when I was having coffee."

Her voice pronounced his name quietly as she flung herself into his lap in the single chair at the kitchen table. He moved his hands around her back and she pulled in her knees so that she was curled up, catlike, in his lap.

"Craziest thing you've ever heard, huh?" Jack asked her.

"No, Jack, it's the most moving thing I've ever heard," she said, her lips gently brushing his cheek. "Besides, I did things like that too."

Jack just looked at her, waiting for an explanation.

"When's your birthday?" She asked.

"July," he said with a slight peak in his brow, "Why?"

"I always celebrated your birthday. But I didn't know when, so I had to make it up. October 26."

"Really?"

"Really," she said. "That's all I could allow myself to do. I gave myself one day a year that I could justify thinking about the past. I'm glad I know it now, though. Especially since it's almost embarrassing how far off I was."

"You should hear some of the embarrassing things I've done," he reassured her.

"Like what?" She looked up at him.

Still keeping one arm around her shoulders, he reached over to the bookshelf next to him and pulled back a small hard bound volume. "Have you ever read this book?" he asked, handing it to her.

Rose looked the book over. It was clearly a library book; the cover was decorated with only the title and there was plain bookmark towards the beginning. "The Jungle?" she asked. "No, I've never read it."

"It didn't really seem like your type of book," Jack said. "Every now and then, I go to the library and get a stack of books. I don't even care what they're about, just that they were published before, well 1912. I read all of them―classics, philosophy, scientific manuals, even those painful romance novels. I just wanted to read something that maybe you had read and enjoyed."

Rose was truly touched. It seemed that, even though they had only known each other for a matter of hours, they both had defined their lives to live up to the other. She was aching to know what other books he had read, to see if they enjoyed the same ones, but he spoke again before she could ask.

"It made it easier, I think, that I was still reading the same words as you had before I thought I lost you."

There, he had said it. She had been very nervous for the topic of why they thought they lost each other and just what they had been doing for the last 22 years to come up. Based on their activities the previous night, Jack and Rose still fit together perfectly in a physical sense. But had they changed too much emotionally? Rose wasn't sure whether she should dread the answer she feared beyond all else, or be excited for the outcome she had been hoping for for her whole life.

"Why?" She asked nervously. "Why did we think we lost each other for so long?"

"I looked everywhere for you on the rescue ship."

"I was hiding from my mother."

"So she doesn't know you're alive?"

"No, at least I don't think so, I've never spoken to her since then."

Jack wrapped her tighter in his arms, if that was possible, and leaned his forehead on the crown of her head. He was finally realizing exactly how much she had given up in order to keep the fire that he had set free.

"What about you, Jack?" she asked, a tear rolling down her cheek. "I tried so many times to wake you up."

"I remember waking up on that piece of wood and you were gone. I was so scared I couldn't even think straight. I rolled back into the water to look for you and a boat picked me up. That's about all I remember," He said.

"I was so distressed, Jack," she said, the tears coming freely and quickly now, as she leaned her head on his shoulder. "I thought you were dead and the boat was there. I knew I couldn't just let you sink. You deserved better. Hell, you deserved everything. I wanted to do it all for you once I got ashore, but I didn't have the money to do it in California and I didn't have the courage to go to Wisconsin. All I could possibly think to give you, after you had sacrificed so much for me, was to let you have your turn on the board. I'm so sorry, Jack! If only I had known you were still there!"

"Shh," he whispered, stroking her hair. "We're here now. But I know I checked all of the lists. Why weren't you there?" Simply checking the list seemed awfully cursory, at this point. Jack knew he wasn't on the list at all, so he should have had that sliver of hope that she wouldn't be listed either. It all seemed so obvious now that she was here.

"I was taken off of the list a while ago. They were doing some auditing and found all of the names that were never listed as original passengers. I had to give them all kinds of documents to prove that I wasn't trying any insurance fraud."

"What do you mean you weren't an original passenger?"

"Do you remember what name I used at the mechanic's shop?"

He then remembered the young man that worked at his auto shop had called her Mrs. Dawson. It wasn't until just this moment, that he put it together that she was the same person.

"Oh my God," was all he could say.

"I―uh―never thought I would have to explain it. I just seemed natural, I guess."

Jack was floored. "I'm really, truly flattered, Rose."

"But what about you? Why wasn't your name on the list?"

"Same reason, I'd imagine."

"All this time―we could have had all this time," she said, but at Jack's sympathetic look, continued, "I know. It's in the past now. But tell me what you've been doing. How'd you become a mechanic?"

"It hasn't exactly been my life's goal to be a mechanic in Detroit―especially after my 40th birthday," Jack said. "But there was a job here, so I taught myself how to fix cars. I had grown really apathetic by that time, maybe a little tired of life with no one to confide in. I didn't really care what I did."

Rose knew that feeling. She had been driving around the country for years, looking for someone who'd hire her. She had mostly relied on the tiny amount she had saved from her long past days of acting. Now the jobs she could find were few and far between.

"What about your art?" she asked gently, wanting to know why the artwork in his house was noticeably missing. "Have you done any drawings?"

Jack sighed. This story may be difficult. But not only did it involve Rose, Jack trusted her and respected her enough to tell her. She had a right to hear it.

"I helped paint a mural in San Francisco a few years ago. It was for the WPA."

"More of that traveling of yours," Rose remarked. "I was in San Francisco very briefly, about 5 years ago. But is that really all the art you've done? Your drawings were so wonderful―so lifelike."

"I wanted my last drawing to be of you."

"You haven't drawn anything all this time?"

"Nine years after―yanno"

"Yes, I know," she said, beckoning him to continue.

"I had to go back to New York. I witnessed a crime and somehow I ended up the sketch artist for the NYPD. It wasn't exactly ideal, but, like I said, I wasn't really expecting anything to be perfect at that point in my life."

Rose kissed his cheek and leaned back on his shoulder, waiting for the rest of his story.

"Do you remember when Cal died?"

"Yeah, he offed himself after the crash. What does he have to do with anything?" She was more than surprised to hear Jack talk about Cal. She hadn't even thought of him in years. Not since he died, at least.

"He didn't off himself."

"What are you talking about? I read it in the newspaper," Rose asserted.

"The same newspaper that seems to think we both died twenty years ago?"

Rose opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't come up with any words to say. Luckily, Jack continued for her.

"He was killed in New York. Somebody came in to report it, I drew the killer for him. Have you seen a picture of his widow?"

"She looked like me. I just thought that Cal wanted―Oh my God!"

"I thought it was you. When I found out who the victim was, I knew it was you. I didn't know how you were alive, but I knew I had to protect you. I ruled his death a suicide without even thinking of the repercussions. Really, he just married a girl that looked like you and she snapped one day."

"It sounds bad, but I don't really blame her."

"I didn't either. But I knew I couldn't work for NYPD anymore."

"I'm so sorry, Jack."

"I try not to think about it. But what about you? How'd you end up in Detroit?"

Rose blushed. Jack had told his story, now it was time for her to come clean. She was a little bit more prepared for him to know her story now that she knew his. Besides, it was always easier to talk wrapped up in Jack's lap.

"I was trying to go to Chippewa Falls. Didn't exactly make it."

"Really?"

"I thought it would be sort of the climax of my journey across the country in that old truck."

Jack's eyes darkened at the mention of the truck he had crashed the day before. "Rose, I am so sorry about the truck."

"It's just a truck. Besides, it's done all it can―it drove me to you."

"But you lived there―didn't you?"

Rose stood up and looked down at him. "Jack, can I stay here for a few days?"

He seemed slightly alarmed by her abrupt change in topic, but responded quickly, "Of course."

"I don't live in the car anymore, at least for the next few days. Now come on, let's go see if all of my belongings from the car were looted or just some."

--

The walk back to the site of the crash seemed much shorter dry and in the daylight than it did in the dark and the rain. The truck was just as they had left it―molded around the tree it had hit.

On the way, hands clasped tight, they had exchanged some of the few lighthearted stories they had accumulated over the years.

They eventually found their way to the only door that would open, the driver's side on the front seat. Rose reached in and pulled out a small carpet bag. She walked around to the front and tried to pry the hood open, but it wouldn't move against the tree.

"I keep some cash underneath the motor," she explained. "But it doesn't look like I can get to it. I'll have to find a way to pay for the work done on the truck though."

Jack was a step behind her when he heard her last comment, missing the tone of her voice. "Jesus, Rose. The jump start is on me. Call it the benefits of having the mechanic be in love with you."

"Well thank you," she said, giggling a little bit. "But as I don't seem to have any money, I _can't_ pay. I was hoping there was _another_ way I could pay the mechanic. Suggestions, Mr. Dawson?"

He grabbed her from behind, turned her around, and kissed her with as much passion as she had ever remembered being kissed in her life. She clutched the fabric of his shirt as his lips trailed down her neck and sucked at her collarbone. She hungrily pulled his lips back to hers and wrapped one of her legs around his.

When the kiss finally broke, they just looked at each other, panting.

"I think you're settled. But I may recommend some more mechanic work from time to time."

"I'l keep that in mind," she finished the rhyme.

As soon as the moment ended, however, Rose seemed to remember something in her carpet bag. She quickly rummaged through it, pulling out a smaller parcel.

"Open it," she whispered, placing it in Jack's hands.

He started to pull the top off, but knew what it was was as soon as he caught the tiniest glimpse. The giant blue diamond shone back up at him like a light against its backdrop. He ran his finger against its facets.

"It's yours if you want it," he heard her voice say. "I didn't actually find it until I was in California. The second time in my life that I wore it was the day I went to the pier."

"California? You went to the pier?"

"I was in a traveling theatre company, but I just stayed in California when they moved on. I had a very small part in two films."

"I'm so proud of you, Rose. I just wish I could have seen you."

"Now that you mention it," she chuckled, "it's weird that you haven't. I always imagined you were watching."

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'd much rather you be here than in a place where you could have watched me. Maybe someday if the theatres open back up you can come watch. Er... that is... if you still want to by then."

Though Rose wanted beyond all else to have a future with Jack, they hadn't yet discussed it. The worry rose in her eyes as she realized her slip. But she immediately felt his arms wrap tighter around her shoulders.

"I'll be there," he said simply.

"Good, 'cause I'm not letting you go so easily this time." It sounded like a simple thing for her to say, but she regretted the phrasing as soon as the words were out of her mouth. She hoped Jack wouldn't pick up on it and remember the promise she had made to him. It had been troubling her ever since she had seen him the day before. Though she had survived that night, she hadn't exactly followed his words to the letter. She had wanted to have children more than anything, but had never achieved it. She just hoped Jack wouldn't think less of her.

His next words broke her out of her thoughts. "I'll be there," he said. "For every potential play that you might do. And you went to Santa Monica too? You rode the horse?"

"Yes," Rose's mood was slightly dampened. He was unintentionally treading on territory that came very close to her most recent fears. "There's a picture somewhere in my bag. It took me some courage to make it there, but I was so happy when I did."

"I'm so..." he kissed her. "So..." he kissed her again. "So proud of you. Everything you wanted to do, everything we talked about, you did."

"Except one thing, Jack."

"What?" he asked, curiously.

"I broke my promise―I―"

"What are you talking about?"

Did he not remember the promise? Is that why he hadn't confronted her about her lack of offspring? He had been moribund at the time he made her promise, but she thought it had been important enough that he would remember.

"You know, 'Y're going to go on and you're going to make babies and watch them grow and you're going to die an old lady, warm in her bed.' Remember that, Jack?"

"Of course I do―but―"

"I never had any babies. I promised you I would, but I couldn't."

Jack had been beginning to walk home but, as she spoke, stopped in his tracks.

"Do you still want that?"

"Of course―but I'll be 40 years old by the end of the year. I hardly―"

"Marry me."

"What?"

"I should have asked you the second I saw you again. Will you marry me and have what should have been ours 22 years ago. Our horizon. Our babies."

It was the last word that did it. Rose finally realized for good that the Jack she loved was back, truly back for good. She remembered all of the times she had broken into tears, mourning his loss, morning her loneliness. She would never need to feel like that again. They would be married. Instead of two lonely drifters, Jack Dawson and Rose Dawson could become "The Dawsons," a real, honest-to-god family.

Not even considering that it wasn't exactly distinguished for a woman of her age, Rose leapt into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. She kissed him with all her passion, assuming he would take that as her answer.

Jack dug through his pockets and pulled out a small ring of keys. He pulled a small one off and pressed it in Rose's open palm.

"It's not exactly a ring," he said. "We can go get that tomorrow if you'd like. But the key's yours."

"It's to your house?" Rose asked reverently.

"Our house," Jack corrected.

Rose couldn't help but think that only Jack would give her a spare key instead of an engagement ring. But it was only Jack whom she'd ever want to marry. It was so different from what her previous life had been. First with the jewels and galas―when the real diamond ring adorned, yet choked her finger. Then when she had been so lonely, living life with a shaky facade on her emotions. Finally, however, even though she had a simple house key instead of a diamond ring, she was happy.

Jack felt that, as he held her in his arms, his life was finally turning out the way he wanted. He had been alone for far too long. It hadn't bothered him at first, but then he had had a taste of what it was like to be in love―to thrive simply on the companionship of someone else. When that had been ripped away, he had crawled back into his lonely shell. Now there was nothing in the world he could possibly want more than to be part of a family.

**A/N: This is the end of the story. I hope you enjoyed it, and I'm so sorry for taking do long to get the last chapter posted. I was thinking about writing a wedding scene, but I think this ending is better. If you want one―use your imagination, or write it yourself. :-) I'd be glad to read it. **

**P.S. How 'bout them Red Sox? :-)**


End file.
